The Gray In Between
by Winking Tiger
Summary: “And then he told her, the hardest part to tell, what had just happened: what had torn his heart out and shredded the pieces, burned it all, and then defaced what was left, or not.” He came to the one person he had left. Vaughn angst. Complete
1. An Empty Bed and Calendar Pages

**Title: **An Empty Bed and Calendar Pages****

**Author: **mblab

**Rating: **PG-13  

**Feedback: **Any and all comments to: mblab@bellsouth.net

**Timeframe: **General Season Three 

**Category: **Angst/Romance 

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing, except the words that have come off of my keyboard.  The characters belong to JJ Abrams and ABC; the music belongs to BT.       

**Summary: **"She had woken up to an empty and cold bed."  She was his wife, but she didn't feel like it that day.  Vaughn angst. 

**Credit: **Thanks to Kat and Jade, who twist wrists and claim to be the voice of reason and truth. 

**Author's Notes: **This wrote itself, with fury and insistence.  Its style is different, so bare with me.  This piece came first.  To me, it's still up for grabs just who the female is, whomever Vaughn's wife is.  But I prefer not to clarify.  

"Time keeps/ taking/ her time" –BT; 'Dark Heart Dawning'

She had woken up to an empty and cold bed.  She had turned over, after turning off the alarm clock, to wake him up.  His side had been vacant, and when her hand reached the cold pillow, she felt something deep inside her stomach.  

She had gone through her usual morning routine.  And all the while he had been missing.  There was nothing in their house to indicate that he was still there, or had been, in hours.  She had finally left the house, driven to work, and cleared her head of any lingering thoughts from that morning.

She had heard from him hours later, sorry about being gone already—he had gone to work early.  Early, she could understand.  But his 'early' been before anything was open or possible to be there 'early'.  And she felt the feeling in her stomach once more.  But she smiled and replied that it was fine, she had been sure that's what he'd done.  She hung up a few moments later, and resigned herself to continue what she needed to get done.  She looked around her, saw her calendar still on the day before, turned the page and threw it into the trash.  Concentration was crucial and there was no reason for her to be distracted.  She continued at work and came home when it was appropriate.  

She came home and looked for his car.  She took her keys out and opened the door; it creaked as it let her in.  She went to the office and set her things down.  She went to the bedroom and took her shoes off and placed them next to each other in the closet.  She got undressed and folded her clothes and placed them in the laundry basket, inside the bathroom closet.  She turned the water on in the shower.  As she let the water run, and heat, she looked at her reflection in the mirror.  It soon became fogged and blurred and she turned around and entered the water.  She left the water later, much later, and wrapped a towel around herself.  After brushing her hair and hanging the towel to dry, she padded into the bedroom and changed.  She passes him in the hallway, and if she didn't know any better, it'd have seemed like a bump into a passing stranger on the street.  

She keeps going then, but he stops walking and turns around.  She doesn't hear the door shut so she turns around.   Their eyes lock and his head makes a small gesture.  She smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes, barely passes her lips.  He doesn't say anything.  And she moves, uncomfortable, standing in the middle of their hallway, looking at each other, and saying nothing.  

She asks him how his day was.  He shrugs and makes a noise that may have been a response.  She asks him a few other questions and his responses are more or less the same—with little enthusiasm but not harsh.  She asks him if he's drunk and he laughs at her, shakes his head 'no', but says nothing.  She waits another minute and they stand, in their own hallway, saying nothing.  She asks him if he's feeling okay.  She says he's been off the whole day, she's worried.  He starts to give his non-answer shrug but stops.  He looks at her, his shoulders drop, and something in his eyes settle differently.  His head crooks to the right slightly and he takes a deep breath.   He starts to say something, she's not sure where he's going, but then stops and makes a face—he's thinking about what he's going to say.  He's really trying to form the right words and say the right thing.  And she tries not to brace herself, thinking that what she's felt deep in her stomach all day is nothing—but she doesn't know why she is bracing herself for what he's about to say.  He's just probably exhausted and not able to think clearly.     

His eyes change again and he goes to talk.  He says something about how today was different and he's sorry if he's been weird, he didn't mean to be.  He straightens his back and flicks his eyes down at the watch on his wrist and he looks at her like his thoughts are spilling from his mind straight to hers.  She shakes her head, confused by this entire thing, and prompts him to continue.  He goes on again about being sorry for acting weird and she interrupts him when he just repeats what he'd said before.  He stares at the floor beneath them.  He focuses on his feet.  And he says, sounding defeated, that it is October first.  And when a few minutes pass and his eyes haven't left his shoes and she hasn't said anything, hasn't moved, hasn't left he doesn't know what to do.  He forces his eyes up and looks at her.  She has confusion written all over her face and he asks if she knows what today's date was.  She responds easily, of course she does, she's not a child, an infant—what kind of question was that?   It grows silent again and he looks just past her, to the left slightly, and rambles on faster than she can understand him.  He's talking faster than she can comprehend and saying things she doesn't understand even when she can make out the words he's saying.  

It grows quiet, again, and it becomes too much.  He turns around and enters the bedroom, closes the door, and she hears the water turn on.


	2. Lonely Sheets and the Dead of Night

**Title: **Lonely Sheets and the Dead of Night__

**Author: **mblab

**Rating: **PG-13  

**Feedback: **Any and all comments to: mblab@bellsouth.net

**Timeframe: **General Season Three

**Category: **Angst/Romance 

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing, except the words that have come off of my keyboard.  The characters belong to JJ Abrams and ABC; the music belongs to AudioVent.       ****

**Summary: **"So he stays, his breath evening and staring out into the night's sky."  He couldn't sleep and she does not understand why.  Vaughn angst.

**Credit: **Thanks to Kat and Jade, who twist wrists and claim to be the voice of reason and truth. 

**Author's Notes: **This wrote itself, with fury and insistence.  Its style is different, so bare with me.  This piece came second.  It was what came from thinking about what happens now.  Sydney goes on missions: how does Vaughn handle them?  
    
    "When will I wake/ From this dream?/ It's a never-ending painful scene" –AudioVent; "When I Drown"

She wakes up, again, to an empty bed.  Her hand had reached over, surprisingly, to a lukewarm pillow besides her.  He had been left their bed, but he had been there—he hadn't been gone for too long.  She glances at the clock, reads the neon red digits, and turns again.  She tries to fall back asleep.  But when she opens her eyes again and she turns to the red glow, only two minutes have passed.  She thinks, because it is too early, or too late, and her eyes are unable to clearly make out the numbers—it could have been two minutes or five.  She estimates, guesses, but is rather sure she's somewhere near the truth.   

She cannot lie in bed with a getting-colder-by-the-minute pillow besides her and an emptiness that surrounds her.  She gets up, cautiously, and maneuvers around the bed and through the doorway.  Although she contemplated glancing at her reflection in the mirror, she does not, she doesn't want to see the reflection she's sure would look back at her.

Making her way through their home, she hears a noise.  A faint smile comes to her, he must not have been able to sleep, and put some sports on.  But when she finally gets to the television, the volume is turned barely above mute, the remote lays haphazardly, alone, on the table, and he is nowhere in sight.  She makes her way to the kitchen, thinking that maybe he's gone for a midnight snack.  But the kitchen is empty too.  The reflection of the neon green lights from the microwave onto the pristine tiled floors begins to give her a headache.   

She walks through their entire house, as if she's on a tour—for the first time seeing this home, a potential buyer—and she's come up empty handed each turn.  He was not back in front of the television.  He had not walked outside, to the front.  He had not gone back to the bedroom.  He was not loitering in the hallway.  The bathrooms were uneventfully clear.  She had gone around, twice, and could not find him.  She almost gives up, wanting to go back to sleep, to attempt to battle the red glow of the clock, beat it, for once, and sleep, without worry.  

But she turns one way instead of the other.  And she thinks she knows where he's gone.  The back door is open, slightly.  The moon hangs in the sky.  It seems too low for this time of night.  But the lights mostly off give everything an ethereal feeling as the black almost overwhelms all it touches.  The grass is moist beneath her feet; she almost trips on a small rock, but recovers just in time.  She takes another step and hears something.  She was sure she'd been hearing things, imagined the door being opened.  He must have gone somewhere, for some reason, she's sure there was a reason—good reason—and he's fine.  

She's making things up now and that's not helping her mind or sleepy body.  But there's a noise, that's not the slight breeze, or the palms rustling, or even her feet moving because she is standing still.  She turns around and sees something—a shadow, his shadow—almost hidden in the shadows themselves.  His head is bent at an odd angle, like he's focusing or concentrating on something.  His body is moving slightly with the breeze.  And as she gets closer to him, she sees that while his head is almost pointed up to the sky, his eyes are closed.  She bites back a laugh, something about the way he's standing and air around him: a kind of odd prayer.   

She's not sure if he hears her.  She's rather positive that no matter how tired he is, he's had to have heard her movements, or maybe the laugh she's not sure she held back now.  But he continues to stand as he has since she spotted him.  They both stand in silence, only her's is in muffled confusion.  After what seems like forever his head moves a bit and she thinks she sees his eyes flutter, and then close again.  His breathing changes, from the deep steady breaths, to slightly erratic ones.  She goes to say something, but the words catch in her throat—what is she supposed to say?

He cocks his head to the side.  His eyes open, briefly, and she sees his red, sleepless eyes; above the dark circles, only she could see forming, because they're not that dark, but he always had perfect eyes.  Before she realizes it his eyes are closed and facing the opposite direction.  

She doesn't remember him going to bed.  But after seeing him, all that that one 20 second glance afforded her, she's sure that he didn't sleep long—if he did at all.  He was restless, she decides.  And before she can stop herself she has come up with a plan in her head of everything he's done that night, morning.  He's done this and then gone into this room and then did this and went here and ate this and talked to this person and did this, this, this.  

But of all the things he's done that day, she's sure that sleep hasn't been one.  And she's worried now.  He was restless, she knows.  The pillow had been warm, the TV had been on, and the door had been open.  She's no longer sure he's only been out here for a few minutes.  And she shivers, but she's not sure if it was the wind or something else.  

It's all a little too much.  She came in with open arms.  And he'd loaded her, eventually, with bags until her arms felt so heavy she they would almost break.  It wasn't supposed to be this hard.  But it wasn't supposed to be that easy either.  She didn't think they'd found a perfect median.  She didn't think they'd found a perfect anything anymore.  She's second guessing and over analyzing, hoping hindsight will give her a better perspective on it all.  And she's not sure of anything anymore.  And his silence only makes things worse.

Just when she thinks she's going to burst out in tears, he speaks.  Her eyes are watery and she can't tell if he's facing her or not.  But he says that he couldn't sleep.  And he tries to explain, goes on about never being able to sleep before.  He starts to say that she should get used to it, go back to bed, everything's alright.  But he stops himself, and she knows—knows from his voice—even without seeing him, that he's stopped because he's afraid he's said too much.  And she remembers what it was like, frustrating, to think of all that he keeps from her—this is just one more thing.     

She also remembers that there wasn't a damn thing she could do.  So he stays, his breath evening and staring out into the night's sky.  And she wonders what he's thinking about, but becomes jealous of whatever it is, because she knows it's not her.  

As she walks to bed, she looks out each window on her way, and those that aren't, that point in his direction.  And he stands there, as the minutes pass by, a half hour, an hour.  And she truly knows that he's troubled, but that there's nothing she can do to help him.  And she climbs back into her too-big bed, alone, and cold.  And as she tries to emulate him, in their bed, all she can hear are the crickets chirping faintly, the buzz of the electronics in their home, the creaks and hums of the air conditioning and the silence that's killing her.  So closes her eyes and hopes she has the strength to withstand more nights like these.  She knows that they'll come.  


	3. Water Red

**Title: **Water Red 

**Author: **mblab

**Rating: **PG-13  

**Feedback: **Any and all comments to: mblab@bellsouth.net

**Timeframe: **General Season Three

**Category: **Angst/Romance 

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing, except the words that have come off of my keyboard.  The characters belong to JJ Abrams and ABC; the music belongs to Edwin McCain.       ****

**Summary: **"And then he told her, the hardest part to tell, what had just happened: what had torn his heart out and shredded the pieces, burned it all, and then defaced what was left, or not."  He came to the one person he had left.  Vaughn angst. 

**Credit: **Thanks to Kat and Jade, who twist wrists and claim to be the voice of reason and truth.

**Author's Notes: **This wrote itself, with fury and insistence.  Its style is different, so bare with me.  This piece came third, maybe not chronologically, but artistically.  Call it a prequel, if you will to the other two pieces ("An Empty Bed and Calendar Pages" and "Lonely Sheets and the Dead of Night").  It came from deep within, about the kind of loss that leaves you without words that rots inside of you.  And being able to have someone to lean against throughout it all.  There are fewer relationships stronger and more powerful than that of mother and child.    

"Cry my eyes out, in my private little war" –Edwin McCain; 'Take Me'

It doesn't escape her, how his eyes have turned red.  They're large and puffy and redder then she ever thought possible.  He's wet, she only notices now.  It had poured all night and she worries how long he's been out in the rain tonight.  He's desperate, like she hasn't seen him before—not even with his father.  

Then, he had been upset because his father wouldn't come to see him play his game that week.  And only much later, when he did not see that game, or the next, or tuck him in bed, or call, or walk into the front door, did he ever show anything else.  He had asked her quietly what he had feared.  'He hasn't come home.  He isn't going to, is he?'  And she had to cling to him, this brave little boy, who would have to grow up too soon, and hold him with everything she possessed—afraid of loosing him as well; all that she had left.  He sobbed into her shoulder, clinging to her as well.  And the moments that passed tore a little bit of each of their hearts out.  But the presence of the other had mended the tears a bit—the bond of a mother and son was unlike any other, even that of son and father.  He never was exactly the same again.  

She can remember that day, those moments, his face, his sobs, and she fears what has caused his expression now.  He had never been like that before.  This time, however, he was different—she sees something else in him, in his eyes, his heart.  

She had to calm down the fear that would not leave her alone now.  She would be in pain if he was.  And his pain was so great, then, she didn't know if she could handle it, or what to do.  

He had stood in the doorway, motionless and quiet.  But then their eyes met and he clung to her like she had to him all those years before.  And she feared for him, and her heart broke for him.  Because the loss of a father was great, but she did not want to contemplate, not again, the loss that would cause him to be like this.  

He had sobbed and clung to her, and he became unsteady on his own feet.  His unruly feet, and heart, and lungs, and tears forced them to sit down.  And the pain in his eyes scared her more every moment that passed and he remained silent.  

She finally made him look at her.  And then she had promptly forced him into the bathroom.  She had grabbed a towel and forcefully instructed him to try and dry himself; she was going to get him something dry to wear.  But when she had come back with clothes in hand, he was staring at the mirror, unaware of anything else.  She shook him slightly and broke his stupor.  She placed the clothes on the counter and bent his head, took the towel and patted his head dry.  She took his clothes off and forced him into dry ones.  And then she got him into the safety of her bedroom.  

And finally, after all of that, he looked at her again and she almost fell to her knees with what she saw in his eyes.  He could barely get a word out before sobs overtook him.  Achingly painful, he got out each word, between the sobs, and told her—everything.  He told her about the incredible things that had happened recently, the good and the bad.  He explained why he'd been how he'd been—even though he hadn't told her at the time why, he did now.  And then he told her, the hardest part to tell, what had just happened: what had torn his heart out and shredded the pieces, burned it all, and then defaced what was left, or not.  

And all she could do was comfort him.  Though there was to be no comfort found for a broken heart like his.  And if anyone knew that, it was her.  So she tried to soothe him.  She did her best to be there, next to him, as he cried over everything that had happened, everything he lost, and everything he now knew he would never have.  She placed a blanket over him after he'd cried himself to the point of exhaustion and collapsed on the bed.  She turned the lights off and slept on the couch.  And in the morning she kept the windows closed, enclosed his sleeping figure with the cocoon of darkness—that might just make the least bit of difference, but she could try all the same.  

She checked on him every ten minutes, until she no longer could wait that long, and then she just sat in the corner, watching him.  She kept her watch for hours, exhaustion, physical and emotional, taking its toll on his body—as he slept on.  

And hours later, when she came back from getting a glass of water, she saw the dark spots on his pillow.  And she frowned, knowing their origin.  She slumped with pain for her baby, for the excruciating pain he was in, and her inability to help him.  But he woke soon enough.  

And they sat together, in silence, and the strength she provided him gave him enough energy to live for the next few minutes.  And the next minute passed, and it still hurt, but he had her—to sit next to him.  And they sat there, for hours.  And the night came and went.  And they set up a routine.  

In a few days he didn't cry himself to sleep, at first; it took him waking up from his sleep to start the tears that come from deep within.  And he'd shed those until there were none left, and his body would shut down.  And in the morning, she'd come back.  And he'd sit with her.  And the night would come; and then the day.  And in time he was able to talk, about things that didn't matter.  And he clung to her when it became too much.  But he thanked all he didn't believe in for at least leaving him her.  

And he grew to be able to love the pain he felt, because it was all that he had left of her.  At least he had that.  


End file.
